


Regent

by Iknowthebattle



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Harry Styles - Fandom
Genre: Bisexual Icons, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Boys Being Boys, Fashion & Couture, Fluid Sexuality, M/M, Queer Themes, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-25 07:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14373909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowthebattle/pseuds/Iknowthebattle
Summary: Tim attends a fashion show during in London.





	1. All That Glitters

**_London Fashion Week_ **

**_Men’s Collection; Burberry_ **

**_June 2018_ **

The program was paper even though the event was opulent, white everywhere from the runway to the lilies and roses that lined every square inch of the walls. It smelled like a perfume store and a funeral home rolled into one.

 He scratched his nose as soon as he walked in, having stopped to pose for photos in the mist outside, and being asked what was his best piece of fashion advice _(“comfort! I mean…what else?”)_

 _$2300  worth of comfort._  

He smiled for the cameras as he burrowed deep inside his Burberry over coat, cheek bones tucked into the high collar, rain in tiny diamond droplets on his hair.

Tim threw the program away in the first all-white trash bin he passed, hoping no one saw.

“Timothee?”

He turned around on one heel, doing a half-twirl, caught. A young woman wearing a head set was shaking her head, laughing.

“I think you’re in the wrong place, the Burberry show is next door.”

“Oh! Okay, sorry, I just walked in the nearest door.” He motioned toward the door as if it mattered.

She nodded in a different direction and he followed, hoping this did not mean he had to go back outside into the rain again.

The PA led him through a botanical garden of white until they reached a long hallway, and another set of double doors that thankfully did not lead outside but into a an enormous room with another runway, this time coated in earth tones, soft browns and coral, blacks and hunter green.

It smelled like leather and cologne, clean suede.

He was led to his seat—left side of the runway, front row, his name taped to a chair which the PA snatched off. She gestured grandly toward the seat as if it were a throne.

He sat down with a quick thank you in her general direction but she was gone in a flash. He stopped himself short of giving her thumbs up sign; he felt eyes all around turn on him.

 Tim sat down, automatically pulling out of his phone from his coat pocket, his security blanket. Ford and Harper his lock screen.

Usually his blood ran differently at these things. He walked slower, comfortable, he swayed. His eyes squinted slightly, lips parted, cocky, in his element.

But this time was different.

He was tired from night shoots which made him anxious, a bit on edge, restless but too worn down to do anything about it. He was home sick but he wasn’t sure which home he missed. He wasn’t sure what it even meant to go _home_ anymore.

Instead he let himself be led into the wrong door and to his runway side seat and now he was texting every friend he had in Europe for mindless chatter.

No one was answering his quickly typed and sent _what’s up’s_ and _what’s new’s_ so he opened WhatsApp, now having it to use it for Armie _(and his mom and his New York posse)_ , but not Luca.

He had texted Luca late the night before until Luca finally gave up and called him, annoyed at how many typos Tim had in his wall of texts.

They had talked for over an hour, Tim in his hotel room, feet up the wall, phone on speaker, sitting on his bare chest while he lay with his arms spread eagle on the bed. He could tell Luca was sitting outside while they chatted.

These calls had become a weekly ritual for him since he had been in London. No set time, but Luca always answered. He always texted back.

 _< Hey! Look where I am….>_ and a quick photo up the runway capturing the words Burberry, sending it to Armie.

_< Classic London fashion. You cheating on Haider?>_

Tim grinned at the quick response, knowing what time it was in New York. His internal clock was set to it.

_< GQ put me up to it. You know how they are.>_

_< What a tough gig. What was it this time-did they promise you a new wardrobe? Blow job?>_

Tim laughed his wheezy laugh that only Armie could get out of him. It sounded as if he had smoked a pack of cigarettes in a sprint. There was so much laughter and not enough air to capture it all. He didn’t care if people stared.

_< Naw, my closets are full. I’ll take the BJ tho.>_

No answer for a while.

Tim bit his bottom lip, almost typed… _maybe some shoes_ but Armie’s next line of text popped up.

_< I bet you will>_

Tim looked up and across the runway because he didn’t know what else to do. He held the phone in his hands, thumbs hovering over the screen but not typing.

The screen went dark while he sat there, the seats filling up all around him.

He looked down, his phone asking him for his code, wanting him to ask permission before he kept going.

“And your seat.”  

The PA was back and this time with another front row spectator.

Tim started at the shoes and worked his way up the pants _(well, ripped black jeans),_ belt, shirt _(well…a plain white t-shirt full of scribbles)_ , necklace and finally face.

“No _fuckin’_ way!”

Tim found himself smiling and standing up, opening his arms for the hug he had coming. His phone lay forgotten face down in his chair.

Harry hugged him as if they were old friends, full body, chin on shoulder, big smile.

“I can’t believe it. I’d _heard_ you were here.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah…yeah, on a shoot. Joel’s new project.”

He gestured toward Harry’s clothes. He was not so easily distracted.

“What the fuck man? You show up to a Burberry show dressed head to toe in Gucci?”

Harry twirled around, arms spread so Tim could take it all in.

Tim pointed at his shoes. “The rainbow Gucci boots! Holy shit.”   

Tim knew that fucking buckle anywhere.

Harry pulled his pants leg to show off the entire boot, turning his foot side to side.

Tim looked him over again. He noticed Harry had thrown on a Heritage Burberry scarf as an afterthought. He had it wrapped around his neck like an infinity scarf, sloppy but off set just right.

He suddenly felt overdressed next to him.

“Come on, sit down, sit down.” Harry was shedding his coat, tossing it on the back of his chair without looking. Tim watched the movement and slowly sat down; removing the Burberry coat GQ had sent him and placed it carefully on his own chair, label in full view. Harry’s coat was half on the floor.

Tim slid his phone into the back pocket of his pants, not seeing the three messages lighting up his screen.

Harry swiveled in his seat, his knees against Tim’s chair, the already small personal space completely violated as soon as he sat down.

Tim stared at the tattoos the t-shirt revealed, all over his left arm, on his wrist, his V-neck hanging down so he could see the tips of two tattoos on his chest. They looked like high art graffiti up against the white tee and everything else in this room.

 Tim wanted to ask what each ink mark meant. He imagined myself with similar ink, wanted to know if it hurt, the good kind of hurt, the kind of hurt he didn’t mind.

“Just got off tour, I’m completely out of it, sorry if I’m not making sense. My body’s on twelve different time zones right now.”

Tim nodded. “I can imagine, been there. I’ve got another three weeks out here and I’ll have some time off. I’ll probably head back to New York.”

Harry leaned in close, listening, less and less space between them. He smelled like outside, clean, rain, rushed.

“Yeah, yeah you’re from New York, I think I knew that.”

“Oh yeah, grew up in Hell’s kitchen, live in the Bronx now.”

“I got a place downtown, Tribeca.”

Tim opened his mouth to say something, but just laughed out loud instead.

Harry looked at him.

“What?”

Tim laughed harder, leaning forward in his chair.

“Wha- _What?_ What’s the matter?”

“ _Tribeca?!_ Holy shit, dude.”

Harry was in a different league. Tim knew it, but now he had proof. No indie film paychecks for him.

“Got a place in Beverly Hills too,” Harry said casually, knowing how it sounded, enjoying the reactions he was getting. Not bragging, but casting a wide, fun net. Tim took the bait.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”  

“I live here too; I mean…I’m a son of England after all.”  Hand over heart, sincere.

Tim was laughing so hard he felt, he heard himself make that sound, the sharp intake of breath, wheezing, his joy escaping faster than his body could let it.

Harry leaned forward even more, knees now up against the side of Tim’s thigh.

“Anyway, tell me what you’re workin’ on….King Henry? Shakespeare? Maybe you can teach me somethin’, what did he do again?”

Tim laughed, not sure where to even begin.

They were flirting.

The both knew it too. From zero to fully charged energy, touching legs, no hints dropped or dancing around. No looking over shoulders for wives, the wrong people.

Tim’s head was spinning from the change in air pressure.

_Who had sat them next to one another?_

“You should come to the set!” Tim was suddenly full of ideas, eager to share, not even sure if this was fine. It would be fine, right?

“Yeah? Could I play with a sword?”  Harry looked Tim over when he said it and Tim felt himself swallowing.

“Well…I mean…props may be like…”

Harry clapped a hand on Tim’s shoulder, a wiry smile.

“I’m only jokin.’” 

Harry looked over Tim’s shoulder now, pointed behind him.

“Champagne on the way.”

Tim turned around as the silver tray made its way to them. He took a glass and handed one to Harry.

“Lovely,” Harry took a sip as soon as the glass touched his fingers.

“Oh! Right, can’t forget this part,” Harry clinked his glass with Tim’s.

_“Cin-cin.”_

_“Salut.”_

They both tilted their head back, taking long sips, looking at one another over the top of their skinny champagne glasses.

“Lovely accent,” Harry commented, his glass half done.

Tim smirked. “Yeah, that’s what I hear.”

There it was, his blood was flowing again, upstream and cock-sure.

“How was Coachella then?” Harry was looking at him, curious, toying with his glass.

Tim shook his head. “Fucking wild. I don’t think I slept for three days. In fact, I think I’m still high.”

Harry laughed. “Right, yeah.”

“I mean…it was exactly what you’d expect. I saw so many shows…met some awesome people, hung out with Abel—“

“And now you’re at the Burberry show.” 

There was no teasing in Harry’s voice, almost admiration. He knew what it was like to jump from skin to skin, being to being, bed to bed.

“And now I’m in London at the Burberry show,” Tim repeated, clinking his glass against Harry’s again.

“Fuck, we should have gotten two,” Harry lamented, looking around for the champagne tray.

“Or the whole bottle,” Tim added, draining his drink.

Harry snapped his neck back to look at him.

“I like the way you think.”

He was up and off then and Tim knew he would come back with a bottle. He watched him walk away, not caring who saw, everyone else was either watching him walk or watching Tim do the same.

Shouldn’t sit on the front row if you don’t want to be seen.

Harry returned, triumphant, holding up an opened bottle in victory with one hand. Tim noticed for the first time his nails were painted solid black, smooth and onyx against the green of the bottle.

Tim lifted his glass and Harry filled it to the brim, then filled his own, putting the bottle between their chairs, no intention of concealing it, wanting it within easy reach.

“It kills me how there’s so much build up to these things then it lasts like what…maybe 15 minutes?”

Harry had scooted his chair over, now there was no room between the two of them, thighs and shoulders touching.

“For sure. So much prep and then…” Tim snapped his fingers.

“And so much to look at, take in all at once, bloody hell.”

Tim was nodding, but 100% sure they were not talking about fashion shows anymore.

The lights went out all at once, coming up again around the runway slowly, the crowd applauding.

They were shrouded in darkness, only the space before them lit up and Tim felt the champagne hit his legs, feeling comfortable enough to spread his thighs on his chair, pointed toe shoes meeting Harry’s boot.

Bertuli kissing Gucci.

He left it there.

Sweet Dreams by The Eurhythmics began to play. Harry sat up at the edge of his seat, crossed his legs, clasping his hands over one knee, suddenly focused on nothing else but the show before them.

Tim was amazed how serious his face became, like he was about to witness a holy sacrament.

Maybe he was.

Tim moved to the end of his chair too, elbows on knees as the first model walked out, steady feet, walking in time to the beat, a coat, camel colored on top of a beige turtleneck, brown wool pants, and leather derby brogues.

“You always start with the classics,” Harry whispered, lips against Tim’s ear, arm around his shoulder.

“No doubt, no doubt.” Tim was nodding. Harry didn’t remove his arm from round Tim’s shoulder.

Half the bottle of champagne was already gone.

Both boys watched each model from top to bottom, spectators to a classy as fuck tennis match the way their heads moved at the same time, back and forth, up and down, the music changing to Royals by Lorde, the pace of the models slowing, letting everyone have a good look.

Harry was so excited over a floral shirt and matching shoes combo he grabbed Tim’s knee, fingers grasping bone, fingernails digging in, and then slapping his thigh, looking at him as if to say _Can you believe that isn’t mine?_

Tim let himself be roughed up, paid attention to.

“That’s all you man!”

_Shoulder, ear, knee, what was next?_

Neither saw or cared about the cameras on all sides snapping photos of the collection and any movement they made. They were on the right side of a one way mirror.  

When it was over, all twenty-two looks came back out for the grand finale. Harry and Timmy were on their feet, clapping for the designer, whistling, Tim bowing, confetti falling.

“Christopher _Fuckin’_ Paul _Fuckin’_ Bailey!” Harry hollered, hands on each side of the mouth as the designer hit the runway.

Harry waved his hands and the designer smiled, waved in return, bending down to kiss him on the cheek once, twice. Harry pointed to Tim and he got the same royal treatment. No introduction needed.

The designer pointed to Harry’s shoes, shook his head in mock-disapproval and Harry shrugged, laughing, a Chelsea Grin smile littering his face.

“Can you believe that mother fucker’s got a MBE?”  Harry shouted over the music.

Tim laughed. He was pretty sure he knew what that meant.

“But you know all about that right, eh?” Harry was nudging him in the ribs now, the models exiting the runway.

Tim grabbed Harry’s hands to stop him, but Harry was having none of it, bending Tim over almost backwards to tickle him, drunk on bubbles and leather, knocking over what was left of the bottle with their feet, confetti falling from their hair.

Tim landed back in his chair, Harry standing over him, legs on either side of the chair.

“What the fuck, man?” Tim was laughing, open-mouthed, head tilted up.

Harry adjusted his scarf, taking it off his neck. He bent down to wrap it around carefully Tim’s neck, a total clash of classic plaid against his velvet navy jacket.

Harry reached over into his coat that was all the way on the floor, pulled out his phone and Tim let it happen, let Harry take his photo, a peace sign in the air, legs spread, someone else’s scarf on.

“Your first Burberry show Timothee!”  Harry drug out the e’s for an eternity. Tim stared at his teeth and lips while he did it.

Harry turned the photo around to show him and Tim gave the thumbs up sign of approval.

“Now for the REAL grand finale!” Harry announced, plopping himself down onto Tim’s lap, turning the camera around, stuffing half his scarf in his own mouth and snapping a photo before Tim had time to think.

“Wait, no, come on, I wasn’t ready!” Tim grabbed at the camera. He probably looked fucking ridiculous, drunk, tacky.

“Alright, alright, have it your way.”

Harry adjusted himself, putting on a serious, polite smile and Tim smiled too. He was happy, loose.

At the last minute Harry kissed him on the cheek, eyes wide, his finger on the button, and it was done.

“What are you gonna do with that?” Tim asked, knowing it would never see the light of day. Harry didn’t even post to his own Instagram anymore.

Harry got up, shrugged, and offered his hand, helping to pull Tim to his feet.

“Get your coat, let’s go to mine.”

Tim obeyed, reaching back, pulling on his coat.

“After party?” He asked.

“We can stop by.”

They walked out, side by side, Harry stopping by to shake anyone’s hand who wanted it, or anyone he recognized, Tim right behind him doing the same. It took them twenty minutes to make it across the room.

He turned to Tim when the crowd had cleared, nodded toward the door.

“Shall we?”

Harry slipped his arm into the crook of Tim’s elbow. They walked away from everyone, long legs in step and in sync over confetti and paper programs.

Tim took his phone out of his back pocket with his other hand, smiling at seeing Armie’s name not once, not twice, but three times on his screen. He unlocked it with his thumb.

_< Never did tell me how that BJ was…> _

Tim used his one hand to type back,

_< I’ll let you know>_


	2. Don't Dream It's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is somehow almost 5000 words of Harry/Timmy. I'm not sure what happened, but I hope you enjoy. xx  
> Final part of Regent. Timmy+Harry in London.

“So….I lied to you.”

Tim was sliding his hands around Harry’s marble counter top, moving his body around the endless kitchen island, stretching his already long torso even longer. He bit his bottom lip, looked up at Harry through his hair.

“Well, lookin’ like that, I would believe anything you tell me,” Harry tossed the comment over his shoulder, opening the fridge to look for something, Tim couldn’t tell what. He watched Harry bend over, opening and shutting drawers, muttering to himself.

“Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”

“Then out with it.”

Tim sighed, leaned his elbows on the counter still watching Harry.

Harry stood up, let the fridge close on its own. He stood looking at Tim, hands on hips.

“What? You lied. So what?”

Tim laughed. “It’s silly!”

“What did you lie about? You like girls?”

Tim nearly spit out the water he was drinking, catching it as it dribbled down his chin, shaking his head.

“Wait, no, so you _DO_ like girls or….?” Harry cocked an eyebrow, cocked a hip.

Tim was coughing. “I didn’t even bring that shit up!”

Harry shrugged, turned from him, waving his hand in the air.

“Didn’t have to.”

Tim stared at his back, moving about his own space with ease, even though he had probably never cooked a single meal in this kitchen or done more than pour glasses of wine or beer. At best, he had made coffee. Maybe scrambled eggs. He wasn’t someone happy in the kitchen; he was not a person who loved food like Armie.

“I mean, I lied when I said I had a place in New York.” Tim picked at the top of the water glass. “I don’t. I crash with my family when I’m in town. I did live in the Bronx, while I was going to Columbia, before that I lived with roommates in the East Village. Now…I’m not there enough to hold down a place. Last time I was back it was for like, two weeks. I mean,” Tim laughed, shrugged it off.  “I’m not that rich!”

Harry crossed the kitchen to look at him, palms on the counter.

“And you didn’t wanna tell me cos I am?” One eyebrow rose again.

Tim just looked at him. “Well, yeah. I’m 22 and my fucking clothes are back in my old bedroom.”

Harry laughed.

“Right yeah, but that’s kinda cool innit? Some Gucci shit hanging up next to your Old Navy shirts, I imagine.”

Tim laughed now. “Yeah, I guess so, I guess so.” He coughed again, cleared his throat. Closed fist up to his mouth, Tim looked around the rest of Harry’s place.  The walls and windows seemed to go on forever until they met a swimming pool surrounded by white cement, ferns and small bushes on all sides. The ceilings were higher than most cathedrals he’d been in. He felt as if he could keep growing up forever.

“Wow, this place is huge.”

“It’s not bad. I’ve lived in worse.”

“You’ll have to show me your place in Tribeca at some point.”

Harry snorted. “That’s a fuckin’ guarantee.”

His voice had lowered and Tim realized he was still staring at him, looking from waist to chest to neck until they made eye contact again. Tim’s neck flushed red.

“How often do you get back to New York?”

Harry shrugged, walking off towards the living area.

“I don’t know, not much.” New York wasn’t a place he wanted to visit in conversation either.

Harry stopped suddenly, turning back around, headed toward the kitchen.

“Shit! I forgot! Drinks, yeah?”

Tim nodded, the water sobered him up enough for more.

Harry opened the fridge again, twisted his lips to one side.

“You like white wine? Or,” He nodded over to the adjoining room. “I got a fuck ton of scotch and whiskey.”

Tim smiled. “Maybe wine to start.”

Harry grabbed the bottle, pointed it at Tim.

“Smart man. Looks and a brain, I’m one lucky mother fucker.”

Tim scrubbed the toe of his shoe into the spotless tile beneath, a kid on the playground, digging in dirt, embarrassed, glad to be asked to play on the best boys’ team.

Harry opened the wine, poured two glasses to the brim, no pretense of half-full glasses for the sake of class or hosting. He was happy to keep pouring, keep drinking, keep staring across the kitchen counter.

“There’s more where that came from,” He said, tossing the empty bottle in a bin.

He gestured toward the living room and Tim followed.

“Take off your shoes for fuck’s sake, this isn’t a museum. It’s only decorated like one.” 

Tim bent down, undid his laces with his free hand, careful not to spill any wine on white tile or white carpet.

“Actually.” Harry put down his glass on the coffee table and jogged to some place unseen.

Tim stood in the middle of the massive living room holding a too-full glass of wine and wondering what he was doing here and knowing exactly why he was standing there, designer shoes kicked to the side like flip flops.

“Here.” Harry returned, tossed a bundle of clothes Tim’s way.

“You look like you’re about to walk down a runway yourself, and I can’t have that.” Harry himself was still in his jeans, scarf and white t-shirt; bare feet, glass of wine half gone.

Tim looked at the clothes—faded tight jeans, black t-shirt, Jack Daniels logo on the front, a grey hoodie.

“I can’t believe Harry Styles owns a fucking hoodie,” Tim marveled. _Did he know him at all?_

Harry sat down on the sofa nearest the window. He motioned toward Tim.

“Go on, then.”

Tim looked at him, holding the clothes in one hand, the glass of wine in the other.

“Right here?”

“It’s nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” Harry was grinning, head tilted to the side.

“But if you want some privacy,” Harry pointed down the hall. “Use any room you like.”

Tim saw it as a challenge, even though it wasn’t. Harry was just that comfortable in his own skin, comfortable anywhere it seemed. He scorched with sweet resentment.

Tim scoffed, just a bit, pursed his lips and nodded. He pulled off his coat and shirt first, looking out at the pool, sliding into Harry’s well-worn Jack Daniels t-shirt. He unbuttoned, un-zipped his pants, leaving them open at the waist, his navy boxers there. This time he looked over at Harry to see if he was paying attention.

He was. Watching over the edge of his glass. He raised his eyebrows. _Keep going._

Tim pushed his slacks down, tugged his socks off all in one go. He left them in a pile by a chair, reached for Harry’s jeans and Harry clicked his tongue. Tim froze.

“Shoulda put the jeans on first, left the shirt off.”

“Your shirt is on,” Tim shot back, pulling the jeans up and fastening them. The left knee was so thread bare his bony knee poked out. His bare feet were long and pale on the plush carpet.

Harry nodded. “You got me there.”

Tim and his glass of wine moved to sit on the couch beside Harry, not on the other end, not the chair across the room. Right beside him.

Harry sat, comfortable, arm on the back of the couch. Tim spread his legs wide, holding the wine glass on his thigh; a smell wet circle growing on the denim.

He liked how his legs looked in someone else’s jeans. It reminded him of being in theater in High School and doing quick costume changes back stage. Sometimes it was too dark to see, and he put on someone else’s pants by mistake, only noticing once he was out in the light, after the curtain call. So small he was, he could slide into anyone’s pants, jeans, skirts.

Tim pulled his necklace out from under Harry’s shirt; he liked it to be seen. He rattled and twisted his bracelet around until it fell the way he liked on his wrist.

Harry watched him the entire time, fidgeting, adjusting, settling into the plush sofa, taking long sips of wine, smacking his lips.

Tim felt as Harry watched him look around, taking in his house, looking out past Harry at the pool. Everyone Tim knew had a pool or a garden or something green and exotic behind their house.

“You alright then?”

Tim nodded; one last sip of wine before putting the glass on the table in front of them.

“Never been better.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Harry leaned over, kissing Tim on the cheek, the usual starting place when things like this went down.

Tim sort of knew how this worked by now.

Tim turned his head so he could kiss him on the mouth, soft and timid, but this wasn’t why he came here. He grabbed the back of Harry’s head, pulling him in, chests bumping, teeth clacking against one another.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, pulling away. “You’re here for it.”

“What?” Tim feigned innocence, eyes big. “Did you invite me here to play dress up?”

Harry laughed against Tim’s mouth, his neck.

“Maybe next time.”

Tim opened his mouth, covering Harry’s, his hands on Harry’s chest, then on Harry’s hands, bringing them up to his own throat.

“Grab me.”

Harry looked at him for a half-second and put both hands round his neck, cold metal from his rings against hot skin and Tim rolled his eyes, half-pleasure, half-annoyed.

“Harder.”

He climbed over on top of Harry in frustration, securing his hands there, one hand on each side of his neck.

“As hard as you can,” Tim breathed.

Harry was looking up at him, chest heaving, but he was calm, the eye of the storm.  

“I’m used to being the one pushed about,” Harry breathed.

Tim shook his head.

“I’m telling you what to do, so do it.”

Harry grabbed hold of his neck, squeezing as hard as he could, thumbs on his neck where Tim placed it.

“Fuck me,” Harry’s eyes glazed over, no longer smirking. Tim was in control.

Tim was grinding his hips against the body below him, light headed. He was looking up toward the ceiling his hands on top of Harry’s.

“Gonna need more than this,” Harry muttered and Tim nodded, falling off to the side, falling off of him all legs and arms.

Harry reached over, hands down deep inside the jeans he let him wear, his hands on Tim. Tim’s head was back on the couch, his black-brown curls on white.

“How long’s it been?” Harry asked sliding down the couch, pulling up his own t-shirt to kiss, lick at Tim’s sunken stomach, hands on his hips.

Tim shook his head. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

Harry tugged his jeans down, looked up at him.

“Who was it?”

Another tug on his boxers wisps of dark hair peeking out and Harry gave them one long lick, Tim watching them stick to his tongue and slide off.

Tim looked Harry in the face finally, blinked.       

“You really wanna know?”

Harry nodded, teeth pulling down his boxers the rest of the way and Tim nearly jumped off the couch.

Tim put his hands on top of Harry’s head, then on each side near his ears, tiny baby groans coming out of his pink bow tie lips.

“I think you know,” Tim moaned.

Harry looked up.

“Show me.”

Tim stopped; hands still on the side of Harry’s head, covering his ears.

“What do you mean?”

“Show me who it is. I know you have a photo.” Harry propped himself up on one elbow on the couch, his mouth inches above Tim’s dick. Tim could feel his breath on it.

Tim rolled his eyes, sat up enough and reached down to grab the phone from the back pocket of the jeans, fumbling to unlock it. He found what he was looking for, turning the phone around to show him.

Harry covered his mouth, eyes wide.

“Holy fuckin’ _Christ._ ”

Tim turned the photo around and looked at it, eyes flickering.  

Harry grabbed the phone again for another look. It was Armie in bed, all white sheets, fully naked, hand on his dick, looking like he had just woken up. He had one arm over his forehead blocking out the morning light, a grumpy smirk on his face.

Harry looked from the photo to Tim and back again.

“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me. You _had_ that?”

Tim winced. _Had._ He shrugged.

“I took this,” he admitted.

Harry nearly fell backwards.

“Wait, you…when _was_ this?”

Harry snatched the phone away again to stare, zooming in using two fingers. Tim snatched it back from him, locking the phone and tossing it on the couch.

“I don’t know. A while ago.”

“You don’t know? I would know every fuckin’ time I was with that. Mark it in my fuckin’ calendar, circle it and draw some hearts round it.”

Tim smiled, turning his head into the couch, arching his hips. He wanted Harry’s hands, Harry’s mouth again.

“Too much talking,” he whined. He wasn’t here to think about what he couldn’t have. Right now he could have whatever he wanted and he planned on taking it all.

Harry snatched the jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, running his hands all over Tim’s legs on his way back up.

“ _God…”_ Tim’s voice echoed off the tall ceilings, catching his bliss and keeping it there. He blew out a hot breath.

“Did he choke you? Like that?” Harry’s mouth was near the tip of Tim’s dick.

Tim nodded, agreeing to the truth, saying whatever it was Harry wanted to hear so he would put the rest of him in his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ yes, he did…I do…I do.”

Harry nodded, placing his hands on Tim’s hips.

“Are you picturing him here?”

Tim looked down, couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“What?”

Harry stood up, taking off his own shirt, tossed it on top of Tim’s head.

“You heard me. Are you imaginin’ him here, with us?”

Tim pulled the shirt off his head; let it fall onto his chest, holding it against his nose on the way down. It smelled like soap, deodorant and cigarettes.

“Now I am.” He looked at Harry above him, felt his lips curve up in a smirk.

“And?” Harry stood waiting, faking impatience, moving his hips from side to side.

“And…I think…” Tim licked his lips, gave a tight laugh.

“He’d be in heaven.”

Harry laughed, bent down to kiss Tim.

“No, but seriously. What would he tell us to do first?”

Harry was serious. Tim thought he was flying without turbulence, smooth and clear, circling around the room, watching this happen, and not just being half of it.

“He would…” Tim traced a line up Harry’s stomach to his chest, splaying his hand out there.

“Probably tell us to kiss….so he could watch….”

“Right, okay, check.” Harry kissed him again, his hand on Tim’s dick.

“Then…he would kiss each of us….”

Harry stood up to unzip his jeans, pushing them down and kicking them aside. Tim watched; tongue at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah? How would you feel seein’ him kiss me?”

Harry kicked his boxers off now. Tim didn’t pretend to look anywhere else.

“He would um…I mean…I would…probably be a little jealous. But also,” he finally looked up at Harry.

“It would be hot as fuck.”

Harry nodded, smiling.

“Yeah, it would be.”

He grabbed Timmy’s wrists and pulled him up, wrapping his arms around his waist. Tim let his hands rest at the small of Harry’s back.

“Next?”

Tim rubbed the skin there, smooth and hot at the base of Harry’s spine.

“Then…Jesus…I don’t know.” Tim removed one hand to run through his hair. He put it back around Harry’s waist and the curl fell right back over his eye, a useless attempt at taming it.

“Armie’s….Armie is…he likes everything.” Tim said the last word almost under his breath, going over the things in his mind they had done together.

“Name one thing.”

Tim took a deep breath, grabbing his wrist with his other hand behind Harry’s back.

“Well, he would probably…tie my hands together behind your back…like they are now…but with rope. And watch while I sucked you off.”

Tim felt Harry’s knees wobble, his hips jutting forward.

“And…while I did it, he would pull my hair, guide me,” Tim was looking up and Harry nodded, grabbing his hair, pulling it back with both hands, two fists full, his eyebrows and cheeks pulled back tight, tiling his head all the way back so Harry could watch his cock slide down Tim’s throat.

Tim took it in slowly, coughing and choking just a bit to start, but eventually took it all, keeping his hands behind Harry’s back, holding onto his own wrists just like Armie would want.

“Now what?” Harry breathed out, looking down, lips parted, chest splotchy with desire.

Tim pulled away, kissing the tip, the sides and let his lids fall heavy as he looked at Harry, his chin and lips wet.

“Now we would both be on our stomachs on your bed…probably tied to the head board…maybe our wrists tied together…hard to say….”

Harry was panting by now, Tim pulling his cock in and out of his mouth, teasing, licking, sucking, running it along the length of his jawline.

“Or he’d watch us fuck one another.”  

Harry groaned. He caught himself falling forward, hands on the back of the couch.

“Let’s go to my room…” He was pulling away, but Tim stopped him, grabbed him by the hips to keep him rooted to the spot.

“Let me try on your rings.”

Now Harry stopped and stared at him in wonder.

“You want to wear my rings?”

Tim nodded.

“Yes, please.”

Harry didn’t argue, simply slipped off each ring, three on his right, two on his left and Timmy held out his hands, fingers spread for Harry to slip them on.

He laughed. “It’s like I’m proposing to you!”

Tim watched, silent until all the rings were on. Harry’s hands looked naked and strange unadorned.

He pulled his hands back when Harry was done, wiggling them, the metal heavy on his skin. He thought back to photo shoots, his fingers decorated like this and how it made him feel then versus now.

He felt powerful and wanted to be owned all at once. He felt ready to be flipped around and used when he was all done up like this, just a drop of fancy, a hint of glitter.

Harry was staring at his hands too. Tim put them back on his cock, Harry flinching at the cold sensation on hot skin, biting his bottom lip, loving the sight of it.

“You’re fuckin’...”

Tim knew the rest. Tim could keep up with him. Tim could get rough, be soft, stay creative.

“We gotta get in bed,” Harry panted, pushing Tim’s mouth away. “You’re killin’ me.”

Tim followed Harry to his massive bedroom; in the middle of the room was the largest bed he had ever seen. Harry was digging in his night stand drawer, tossing a handful of condoms on the bed, gold packages flying through the air and landing like confetti.

It was a celebration.

Harry jumped into bed, head back on the pillow. Tim crawled on, hovering on top of him.

“How do you want to do this?” Tim whispered.

Harry’s hands were behind his head.

“How would _Armie_ do it?”

Just hearing Armie’s name come out of Harry’s mouth made Tim twist around inside, obsessed with his own desire, leaking onto Harry’s stomach, making the ink there so wet Tim wondered if it would melt.

“We’ve done it every way you can imagine.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I bet.”

Tim bent down to kiss him, foreheads together.

“What’s your favorite?”

Tim stopped kissing, grinding against Harry’s hip and thigh.

“I don’t know…depends on my mood…”

“Or whatever he wants, yeah?”

Tim smiled against Harry’s neck.

“Fuck you.”

“I think…” Harry walked his fingers down Tim’s spine.

“You need someone to show you what it’s like…someone not too heavy…someone kinda like you…”

Tim was giggling against Harry’s collarbone.

“Just say it!”

Harry sat up, flipping over so he was on top, spreading Tim’s thighs. He straddled him and grabbed his wrists, holding them over his head.

“You need to fuck me like this. It’ll be easier with me.”

Tim was nodding, he didn’t care what or when or how, but he wanted to do as he was told.  He wanted to do this. It would be easier; already Harry’s body was lighter on top of his. He pushed his hips up, lifting Harry just because he could.

Harry reached over, tossed out half a dozen bottles before he found the right one.

“Why am I not surprised that you know what you’re doing?” Tim murmured watching Harry cover his cock with lube.

Harry didn’t bat an eye.

“I mean you’re what…a rock star now, right? Or maybe you always were.”

Harry looked at him.

“You’re talkin’ an awful lot.”

Tim put his hands on Harry’s thighs, rings on display.

“Sorry. I want this.”   _I need this._

“Okay, fine.” Harry wagged the condom packet like a fan in front of Tim’s face. “But you can’t call me Armie.”

Tim pretended to laugh, the room suddenly spinning. Maybe Armie really was here. Maybe Tim had conjured him up and he was sitting, watching, turned on, judging, angry, wanting to join in but it was too late or maybe he had been there the whole time.

Harry nearly fucked Tim through the bed after easing down on him, steadying himself on his shoulders. Tim started at his tattoos, covering most of his arm, his stomach, two on his chest and he reached up to grab at the skin there, digging his fingernails into his collarbone, saying, _harder, harder, faster, faster_.

“Goddamnit.” Tim’s teeth were clenched; sweat beads on his forehead and the crook of his arm. Harry’s back was slick and he gave up hope of trying to hold on. He let his arms fall back above his head, disappearing under scattered ink and moans in the endless bed.

\------------

There were two boys in bed in the morning.

Harry laid half-way across Tim, one arm on his chest, Tim’s necklace lying over on Harry’s elbow, Tim on his back. The lower halves of their bodies were buried in sheets, a single foot belonging to one of them stuck out near the edge of the bed.

Tim woke first, the weight on him not suffocating but comfortable. His fingers felt heavy, he was still wearing the rings. He lifted his head just enough to see it was daylight and plopped back down again, rubbing his eyelids with one hand.

He didn’t care what day it was, what the time might be. He realized he hadn’t seen a single clock in Harry’s house.

He looked over at the night stand but his phone wasn’t there. It was still on the couch where he had tossed it, taking it from Harry last night.

He hadn’t forgotten a thing.

Somewhere in the haze of the late morning, Tim woke up again, this time to an empty bed. The light seemed brighter under the curtains and Tim sat up, rubbed his eyes again. He made his way across the bed on his hands and knees, practically sliding down onto the floor.

There was no need to tip toe around, his feet sunk into the carpet with each step.

Tim took the liberty to dig in Harry’s chest of drawers until he found a pair of boxers.

Tim walked out and into the living room, sliding back into Harry’s shirt, grabbing his phone in one hand from the couch.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!” Harry’s voice called from the kitchen.

Tim smiled, palming his phone, not looking at it yet.  

“Well, maybe not eggs and bakey, but coffee is on.”

Harry was holding a French press and two cups, clearly proud of himself.

Tim sauntered over, running a hand along the counter.

“How do you take it?”

Tim laughed. “I could say _so_ much in terms of answering that question right now.”

He walked over and kissed Harry on the lips.

_Was this how it could always be with someone like this?_

Tim held up two fingers on each hand, two peace signs.

“Two creams, two sugars.”

Harry made a face.

“Blech. I take it black. No frills.”

Harry poured them each a cup, but held onto both, motioning toward the back patio.

“It’s nice out.”

Tim followed him. They sat in chairs overlooking the garden, a cloudy sun overhead.

Harry pulled a pack of cigarettes out from the pocket of his track pants, offering one up to Tim from the top of the pack.

“Coffee and cigarettes, it’s like they were made for one another,” Harry mused, taking a long drag from his own. He stretched out his legs, his bare feet just touching the grass beyond the marble.

Tim lit his and blew the smoke out in front of them. He let his hand rest on his knee, balancing the cigarette between his fingers.

“There is something strangely comforting about having them together.”

He mimicked Harry, pushing his legs out in front of him with a groan, reaching forward to stretch his arms until his shoulder joints popped.

Harry smirked.

“I feel like I did yoga and ran a marathon and I can assure you…I’ve never done either.”

Tim laughed, coughing on smoke.

He reached over at the same time as Harry for his cup of coffee, the two cups on the table between them. The backs of their fingers brushed.

“Hey…you’re still wearin’ my rings.” Harry taped on them with the tip of his finger.  

Tim looked at his hand.

“I guess so.”

He finally looked at his phone, two messages from Pauline, and two messages from Armie.

He unlocked the screen and went straight the camera, stretching his fingers out in front of him to snap a photo of Harry’s rings. He held up his phone again to take a picture of the garden and pool beyond it, the blue-grey sky over head, a hint of his feet at the bottom of the photo. 

“This place is sick,” Tim said closing the camera app.

Harry nodded, smoking the last bits of his cigarette.

Tim turned to Harry, the coffee settling in his blood stream and he felt curious.

“Is it cool if while I’m in London, I come here and crash sometimes?”

_I want to see you again. Let’s fuck again. Right now, if you’re up for it._

Harry looked over at him, draining his coffee, looking down at the grounds sticking to the bottom and the sides of the cup.

“Course you can. Was gonna offer.”

“Thank you.” Not, _thanks man_ or _thanks brother._

Tim took up real estate in a lot of people’s minds, in a lot of people’s couches and bedrooms, he had a lot of places he called familiar, people he called family.

He looked over at Harry, wondering what this would be called.

Tim went for his phone, sliding it open. He read his messages from Armie first.  

_< No idea what time it is there, but good morning/afternoon/night?>_

And

_< Yo. New York summers are just as shitty as TX summers.>_

Pauline’s texts were about his upcoming trip to see her and lastly,

  _< I suuuuuuure do love ya>_

Tim responded to Pauline _< I love you too, seeeeester>_ He put his phone face down on the table.

“Popular this morning.”  Harry’s voice crept over. He was brushing lint, stray ashes from his pants.

Tim took the hint, left his phone where it was while he finished his cigarette and coffee.

“Hey um,” Tim motioned towards Harry’s phone also on the table.

“Will you send me those pictures you took of us yesterday? At the show?”

Harry laughed, sliding down in the chair, putting one foot up on his knee.

“Sure. Right after I email them to the _Daily Mail_ and the _New York Times_ and the…”

Tim reached over to grab the phone, the two of them laughing at the top of their lungs.

Harry grabbed his hand, and held it there, lacing their fingers together, putting their hands down on top of the cool marble just like that. Cold coffee grounds and pinched cigarette filters lay around their feet and fingers, more confetti for the celebration.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: Iknowthebattle xx


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